


That Swan Girl (She’s Got the Devil in Her)

by ohmyohpioneer



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3869635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyohpioneer/pseuds/ohmyohpioneer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CS Daredevil/vigilante AU in which there is much vigilanting and also - subsequently - first aid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Swan Girl (She’s Got the Devil in Her)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bemusedbicycle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bemusedbicycle/gifts).



Her entire body hurts and something smells like salt.

Like fish and salt and  _Jesus_  breathing is sharp and  _Christ_  she aches everywhere but she has to move, move, has to get, to get-

“I might lie still, love, if I were you.”

_Groan_. She can feel the creaking noise leave her body, and even her eyes are hard to open, dim bars of light sneaking under her lids. “Where,” she licks her lip – blood, metallic and alkaline – it’s split, she knows, but it will heal – eventually. “Where the hell am I?”

She sees a bowl, scarlet water sloshing, sullied gauze, a torso in heather grey. Male, thirties. “ _Who_  the hell are you?”

“I believe,” a face appears above her, strong jaw, frantic hair, goddamn really blue eyes, “that’s my line.”

He holds out a black rag, which she registers belatedly as her mask.

_Shit_. 

\---

She comes to again with his hands pressed firm at her ribs.

“Ah ah,” he chides in a night-rough voice, “you’ll pull your stitches.”

A careening sort of feeling is disrupting whatever equilibrium her body has at this point, and even if every cell in her body weren’t throbbing already, there’s a conscious part of her that acknowledges she probably can’t stand regardless.

_Waves_.

“Boat. Why the hell am I on a boat?” she pushes his hands off, coughs in pain, and attempts to sit, “Where are you taking me?”

Hands raised in surrender, eyebrows raised in blithe sarcasm, “ _My_  boat, and you’ll have to answer that one, lass. You’re the one who thought my starboard deck was an idyllic setting to bleed out. And,” he lowers himself to a crouch - eye level, “as for where I’m taking you? The hospital seems like it might be a wise choice at this particular junction.”

“No.” Her teeth ache from grinding them against whatever injury is biting at her side. “No hospitals.”

Any derisive looks he may have given her moments before vanish, soft cornered worry etched into the lines of his face, “You’ve got at least three broken ribs and what appears to be a stab wound. I’d really have a much more pleasant evening if you  _didn’t_  perish on my couch.”

Her body finally permits her to sit up and she can see him twitching to stop her, blue rubber gloves straining against clenched fists. “Had worse.”

“No offense, love,” he leans back, “But that’s hardly a comfort.”

“Not here for your comfort,” gingerly she fingers the bandage at her side, pulls away blood-damp fingers.  _Damn_.

He stands with a bonedeep sigh, “Well, you could at least do the courtesy of telling me how you came to be half dead on my ship. I did stitch you up, after all.”

“Boat,” she corrects, he scoffs, “And I didn’t ask for your help.”

Her knees moan under the pressure of her own weight as she rises.

“You’re right, I should have sought your permission to save your life.”

She concentrates on the noises of the docks. “The only one who saves me is me, buddy,” the shades on his windows are drawn, and she lifts a corner to glance outside. Reflections of lamps on water, fiberglass hulls shining cold and stark. “Did anyone see you?”

A tongue darts out to lick his lips, they’re chapped and worried red. “And who pray tell are you expecting? The only ones awake at this hour are you, me, and the Lord.”

_And half of Gold’s men._

“I have to go,” she makes a grab for the discarded mask, making quick work of her hair, blood caked at the temples and tangled painfully.

“Killian,” he supplies. “Thank you, Killian, for disinfecting my stab wounds.”

His whole face is earnest, disarming in a jagged kindness she’s unaccustomed to and she feels... _awkward_.

“Uh, yeah,” she tucks her hair under her mask, pulls it over her face. It’s never really felt that much like armor before now. “Thanks. Thank you.”

And she leaves.

\---

To his credit, he doesn’t look surprised when he turns on the light to she her hunched, bleeding in his arm chair.

“If I’d known you were going to call by, love, I’d have prepared a nice cream tea,” he tosses his keys in the general direction of his table, and immediately sets to work rolling up his sleeves. Exists the room. Returns promptly - hefty white tin in hand.

“Tidied and hoovered, in the least,” rubber gloves snapping into place. His weighty breath the only indication of his concern - and perhaps the slight low angle of his eyebrows.

She can’t explain why, exactly, she chose to come here of all places. Only that the way he sits on the ottoman across from her seems to elucidate this decision more than any words.

“Now,” he makes an up motion with his hands, “let’s see what we’ve got, then.” 

The material of her shirt tugs at fresh lacerations as she peels it from her sticky skin. And she knows that there’s no way around it, that the lacky who is responsible for tonight’s scars got in a good swipe just below her collarbone and -

“I think we’re beyond modesty at this point, Swan.”

Her nerve endings all seize at once and  _how_  - “What?”

The quick flash of teeth is tender, somehow. “I promise I’ll be a gentleman,” his voice dips low, teasing but soft.

The earlier adrenaline has eased off, and the spikes of discomfort radiating across her chest and shoulders are worsening. So she lifts. Brittle movements as she sheds the long sleeve. She’s never been modest but now.  _Now_.

The quick sucked in breath of a wince draws her out of herself, and the impulse to cross her arms across her chest abates when the callused fingertips of his right hand touch tender at the mouth of her cut.

“Jaysus, love,” head shakes, messy hair follows, and he reaches for suture and needle. “It’s not that I’m not grateful, but perhaps something more protective than cotton next time? Or try to take one or two fewer hits?”

“Yeah,” it’s not something she thinks she’ll ever really get used to - the sting and pull of being sewn back together, “I’ll work on that.”

Silence follows and for moments it’s only her labored exhales, the lapping of waves at the docks, and the rush of his blood, thrumming all about the room.

“Swan,” she looks at the dark shock of hair, bent studiously. “You called me Swan. Why?”

One more stitch, a final knot, and he glides his gaze to her, reaching for the scissors. “Well, that’s what they’re calling you isn’t it?  _The Swan of Storybrooke_.”

There are worse names, she guesses.

She’s become so distracted by the hum of his voice that she nearly jumps when he dabs ointment at the surgical site.

“I think it suits you,” he rips a length of medical tape with his teeth.

“Yeah?”

Steady hands set a square of gauze in place. “You’re quite graceful and rather lovely for a creature so aggressive.”

His whole demeanor is wicked and she fights a flush, can feel it brushing at her breastbone. “So what’s the verdict? Am I savior or sinner?”

It had shocked her at first, the scattered and unkind opinions of press and citizen alike. Determinations about her intention, her soul, being made with head-jarring frequency in the papers and online. She’d never call herself good, but her intentions have always fallen closer to well-intentioned than ill.

_Saving whatever filthy shards of this city’s heart that remain._

“That,” he throws his gloves aside, “is not for me to say.”

She traces his steps through the dimly lit space, past a galley kitchen, up a few steps and out of sight. When he returns, it is with a tee shirt, folded neatly and worn with wear.

It smells like him when she pulls it over her head.

“I do know,” he’d averted his gaze until this point, despite having his nose practically to her chest for the better part of her visit, “that you saved one of my kids the other night. And that’s rather commendable in my books.”

The mental catalog she’d assembled that first night she’d jerked to consciousness on Killian’s boat flashes - not a small shoe, scrap of homework, or Nintendo DS in sight.

“Kids?”

He’s rummaging in a low cabinet, produces a handle of rum. “Ah,” pulls two tumblers from a drying rack, “yes. I work at a local youth center - serves mostly the Cannery, few other neighborhoods.”

Amber liquid, two fingers deep, and she should refuse it, but damn that asshole got a good couple punches in.

“Lad was cornered, gun to his head, and he swears,” a smirk, a swig, “he swears an angel in black swooped in to his rescue.”

She remembers. Hears the cold fear of his young heart, beating, beating madly, the steady, unfeeling breathing of the man holding the Beretta.

“Doesn’t make me good,” the gulp of alcohol scratches down her throat.

He takes her in for a moment, “Didn’t say it did, love.”

\---

Her leg bounces, hits against the edge of the table, rattling a vase, assorted fishing lures.

It’s just this side of dusk, families nestled indoors, the docks deserted except for a brave few souls who aren’t concerned with Gold’s men - probably are Gold’s men. He hasn’t come home yet and it’s not that she’s worried, she’s not  _concerned_ , it’s just -

“Not that I’m complaining,” he takes off his leather jacket, “but I didn’t realize this would become a habit.”

Her black attire isn’t quite as inconspicuous in his tiny space, but she feels exposed with her mask on the table in front of her, staring and taunting and telling her she trusts too much, too quickly.

“Are you hurt?” his question is cagey, but laced with care.

Her hands are covered in cuts, small fragments of battle, nothing soft about her. She looks up and his hands are clenched around the back of the chair in front of her, leaning.

“Do I have to be hurt to see you?”

He shrugs, “Apparently.”

“I have a phone,” she says.  _Jesus_.

Killian halts, puzzlement tugging his bottom lip, “Well, that’s lovely, Swan. I also have a phone. Look at us - mavens of modern technology. So glad to have had this conversation.”

She places the simple flip phone in the space between them. This isn’t. She doesn’t do this. Doesn’t know how.

“It’s a burner,” she tells him, “it’s mine.”

His stillness is severed when he turns, stoops to his fridge, and produces two bottles of beer, cracks the caps open on the counter edge and sighs heavily into the seat facing her.

She sips long at the draft.

The green glass of his bottle is capturing stray slivers of lamplight as he spins it around on its base between his hands, “And you are making me privy to this information because?”

“I don’t know,” another deep gulp.

“Yes you do, Swan.”

She does.  _Jackass_.

“Emma.”

His eyes stumble quickly to hers.

“My name is Emma, and I want you to program this number into your phone,” she pushes the mobile toward him, and he pulls his own out. “I’ll call you if I - if I need your help.”

She’s surprised at how easy and how hard those words are - and it’s strangely like dislocating a thumb to escape restraint. “And I want you to call me. If you’re in trouble.”

He still hasn’t opened the phone, twisting it in his grasp. “And why would I be in trouble?”

“Because,” she swallows, “because I don’t know how much longer you can escape Gold’s radar.”

There’s that tongue on teeth look, all false smarm, “You worried about me, Swan?”

“This isn’t a joke, Killian. He has this city - its police, its mayor, its people - completely under his control, and he doesn’t like the idea that someone might be disrupting that.”

There is a hesitancy in his languid movements.

_Shit. She’s stupid._

“Look, I know this is a lot to ask, and I shouldn’t -”

“It’s not.” Ice blue and deadly serious, he reaches to grab her hand. “Emma. It’s not.”

“But-”

His fingers detangle from hers and it’s an empty feeling, he runs them - one after the other - through his hair. “I bloody hate the idea of a burner. There’s got to be a better -”

She stands, and her mask is back in place. “See you later, Killian.”

\---

But when she calls, he answers.

(One ring, the click of connection: “Speak of the devil. What are you wearing, love? Perhaps that little black number? Covers the nose?”)

Nothing has ever been so straightforward in her whole life. Her battered plea, his immediate response.

\---

Each time she lays broken - just slightly, a rib here, hairline fracture, torn skin there, never totally, never completely - his grasp on her gets a breath tighter.

The pressure of his hand as he holds her still trembles, falters now.

She pretends she doesn’t notice. She pretends she doesn’t reach back.

\---

On the fourth ring, she knows something is wrong.

It’s a gripping, awful thing, like a collapsed lung, short breaths and a deep terrible drowning in oneself.

_Come on, Killian. Goddamn answer._

When his voicemail picks up, she barely even registers the leap out her window, the scatter of footfall up fire escape and across rooftop. The sprint she’s set in makes the Cannery an abstract mosaic of color and sound, just dirt and flashes and sirens and shouts.

The docks are just on the horizon of her vision, when it occurs to her that she doesn’t know what to do. Where she’ll go if he’s not there.

Scrambling, near tripping across the splintered wood of the port, her entire being lurches forward when she spots his boat, door hanging morosely on one hinge. The orderly, warm industrial interior is torn and tossed and there’s  _blood_  in rorschach splatters on the floor.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

“FUCK!” she kicks an overturned chair, throws her hands to her head.

She tries to take in shaking breaths, tries to make her brain work, but she’s actually terrified for the first time since she took on this mantle, since she became the Savior, the Swan of Storybrooke. She just needs to think, needs to get out of this room, tinny with the smell of Killian’s blood.

Gold’s taunting her, calling her out. Using Killian like he’s expendable, another worthless pawn to move his players forward, to put the queen in her place.

And she knows,  _knows_  her place is in the demon’s lair.

\---

When Gold was elected comptroller for the city, it was to the surprise of no one.

He’d worked his way up the ladder - city council terms, sanitation advisory board, senior advisor. He’d proved useful in the reconstruction of the City Library, the financial district, and had given stirring speeches about the magic of the city, the tenacity of its people, the wonder it still beheld.

The day he was inaugurated, handed keys to the city, was the first day she ever slipped on her mask. Years of mistreatment in the city’s foster system had proved caustic to any concerns of love and family, and had served only to ignite an unholy fire - at the injustices shunted on kids like her, people like her.

_‘She’s got the devil in her’_  - the final words of her foster mother to her caseworker -  _‘That girl.’_

“Hello, deary,” he strides forward, cane swinging gladly at his side, “I was so hoping you could make it.”

She knew he couldn’t resist, knew the nostalgic vein that runs through his son extends to him, had found he and his men casually stationed in the old pre-war cellar of his father’s - and grandfather’s - antique shop.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she sneers, and knows some of the effect is lost beneath the cloth covering her face.

Four men. He only has four men here. She’s not sure if she’s offended or grateful that he’s underestimated her so severely.

Gold pulls out a pocket watch, registers the time, closes it with a snap, “Surely you’ve learned by now that everything comes with a price,” he makes a subtle nod to someone waiting in the shadows, “Even this little game of superhero you’re playing.”

“Where is he.” It’s a growl. Not a question.

His smile putrid, a crawling thing across his face, sadistic and vile, “I really would love to stay to chat - catch up - but, I’m afraid I have an appointment I  _truly_  cannot miss. Please excuse my rudeness.”

A car roars to life, old Cadillac, swallows Gold with only the flash of his cane handle, and peels out of a loading dock.

It takes Gold’s men all of ten seconds to surround her.

It takes her all of eighteen to render each of them unconscious.

Wiping the blood off the apple of her cheek she is alive with the buzz of bone on bone contact, the way each of her hooks and kicks landed and cracked, and she’s most definitely a sinner, most definitely feels a heady rush at their scattered bodies.

_That girl. She’s got the devil in her._

\---

He’s tied to some rusty metal chair when she finds him in the next room. Head bent, lolling in effort to remain awake.

“Killian, jesus. Killian,” her knees thunk on the cement surface, her shaking fingers working quickly to untie his restraints before any more unwanted visitors decide to join the party.

“Hullo, Swan,” when he looks at her, in a slow, painful gesture, her stomach goes sour. A gaping cut smiling across the bridge of his nose, swollen flesh purple and painful at his right eye, pink lip split, and red, so much red. Flaked at his widow’s peak, dried to his jaw.

A marrow deep sigh, she takes his face in her hands, touches her forehead to his. “Killian?”

“Yeah, love?” His voice is as broken as his body.

“Next time,” she licks her lips, “Use the goddamn phone.”

\---

It’s the first time she’s ever had a man - other than Will (who hardly counts) - in her apartment.

She’s trying to stitch a wound at his shoulder that she doesn’t want to know the origins of, and she gets, for the first time as well, an inkling of what Killian must endure everytime she calls him, every time she sags against him late at night on his doorstep.

The sedatives she’d given him are sure to have him under for at least another few hours, so she only hesitates for a beat before crawling into bed next to him.

Her ear to his heart, his even  _in and out_  moving through her.

She kisses the bandage at his shoulder and doesn’t think about it.

_She doesn’t._

\---

She wakes before he does, crawls out of bed, drops a note on the counter, and leaves.

\---

The hardest part, she winces, isn’t debriding the various cuts and lacerations herself. It’s that he’s not here.

She can’t trace the line from his clenched jaw to his chin, connect each line of his crows feet like constellations or laylines. Can’t watch his sleep mussed hair move from kitchen to stair to couch. Can’t listen to the curl of his accent around the destitute night.

She tugs too quickly at the threaded needle.  _Shit_.

Okay. Part of her definitely misses his medical finesse.

\---

It’d been a particularly relentless fight. One of those where an endless stream of muscle just keeps goddamn coming.

The interception of contaminated food - apples, red and bright and deadly - set to be sent to the homeless shelter on the corner of Moncton and Second.

She’d limped away as the cry of police sirens dopplered down the alley, and it’d taken some doing to drag herself up the stairs to her apartment.  

“Closer together, love,” his instructions rumble through him, and at her, and she’s so close to the precipice of unconsciousness, she hadn’t even heard him. “Otherwise you’ll have to complete the look with bolts to the neck.”

“I don’t know,” she stops her work - a deep jab to her thigh, thanks to boxcutter, “feel like it might help on the intimidation front.”

In the weeks since she last saw him, his wounds have all but healed, though her memories provide her with a vivid flash of his bloodied body.

“Don’t think you need any help with that,” he’s resigned, she thinks, his heart not pounding with any particular speed - unlike her own - and his eyes just as sad and honest as ever.

“You know you can’t be here,” she zips up her hoodie, crosses her legs with a stifled gasp, and burrows in. Armor, armor, always with the armor.

He takes up residence on her coffee table, “And why is that, Swan?”

Limp, wet hair fans her vision when she looks down to play at the cuffs of the sweatshirt. Bites down that swollen ache at the back of her throat that makes it a challenge in inhale.

When she brings her chin up, he has elbows to knees, hands folded.

“You and I both know that  _that_  - you - you being attacked - that was just a gambit. That Gold never had any intention of killing you.”

His laugh is gravel, “Could have fooled me.”

The clench of her fists, has nails digging into palm. “He wanted me to see you hurt. Wanted me to know that I,” she stops -  _like dislocating a thumb_ , “That I have something to lose. That I have something he can take away from me.”

Killian’s entire body gives, just collapses like a bridge in a current, “ _Emma_.”

The tears that were fighting their way up her throat press past her eyes now. “I can’t lose you.”

When he leans forward, when his hands cradle her face, she doesn’t have the energy to stop him. Wants to let him be one of her many, many (innumerous) sins.

And he kisses her and she lets him.

\---

He kisses her forehead delicately, her face tilting up and into him like he’s the sun, and it’s such a contrast to the way he kissed her last night.

The way filthy way his entire mouth had devoured her, and swallowed her pain and her pleasure. Hands in her hair, a tangle different from that done by the mask.

The fierce, open-mouthed presses he angrily pressed on to the white lines of scar tissue littering her arms, chest, back. Calloused hand and lovingly cruel lips sucking the poison laced in the history of each. Drawing her devil to him, meeting it in the eye, and slowly, deftly fucking away savior and sinner alike.

_That girl. That girl. That girl._

\---

He kisses her forehead, lopsided grin, as he gathers his jacket, tossing it over his shoulders.

“See you later, Swan.”

\---

When she calls, he answers.


End file.
